


The Cage

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Gen, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Torture, sexuality shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a few days Mike starts to miss things that he used to take for granted. Mostly, though, he’s just grateful to be alive</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Suddenly, I realise what locks are for

For the first couple of days in the cage Mike is too scared to think straight. But after a while he starts to miss things. Like the sun on his face, or the way the earth smells after it rains.

Mostly, though, he’s just grateful to be alive.

The cage is too small for him to stretch out in but is high enough for him to sit up in, so that’s how he sleeps. Every day he is woken in the same way – a bucket of water is thrown at him and a voice laughs, “Morning sweetheart.”

Mike never sees the man’s face because he wears a dirty sack mask with wool hair. The rest of his body is covered by a bright orange boiler-suit that makes him like a beacon, even when the room is dark.

“I got you a present.” He says, and drops something through the top of the cage.

Mike gropes around with one hand until his fingers brush a thick, leather collar with a ‘D’ ring at the front and a little bell near the buckle. He tries it on, wrapping it around his neck but it barely meets at the back. “It, uh…it doesn’t fit.”

There’s silence for a little while, the man’s eyes glaring at Mike through the mask. He spins on his heel and disappears, returning eventually with a long pole, a knife taped to the end. Before Mike can even start to panic the pole is being jabbed through the bars of the cage, the knife cutting him shallowly all over his back and arms.

“Fuck!” He cries out. “Stop! Stop! I’m sorry! Please!”

The man stops, dropping the pole with a loud clatter. Mike’s skin feels like it is on fire. And as the man stares down through the top of the cage he is more aware of his nakedness than ever, and draws his knees up to his chest.

“Put it on.”

He’s talking about the collar. So Mike does, fastening it awkwardly behind his neck. It pinches his skin, choking him until he can’t help but cough.

“Clip this to it.” The voice says, throwing a chain through the bars.

Mike does as he is told, clipping one end to the ‘D’ ring obediently. He tries not to cower against the bars as the man then leans in and opens the front of the cage, the door opening outwards. “Come here,” he says, “and don’t try anything.”

He couldn’t if he wanted to. He crawls toward the front of the cage until the man grabs the other end of the chain, tugging him out hard. He hits the floor with a gasp, his chin scraping along the stone ground.

“Get on all fours.” The voice says, looking down at him.

Mike gets up, shakily. He feels ridiculous, embarrassed, but he does as he is told. The man tugs the chain and walks away, forcing Mike to crawl along after him. The ground grazes his knees and something cuts his palm but he doesn’t say anything, just leaves a trail of blood behind him. Ahead of them is something on the ground. It looks like a plastic pet bowl.

That’s because it is.

And it’s full of cat food.

And the man says, “Eat.”

The smell is strong enough to make Mike heave a little. The cat food shines with a thick gravy. In the dark, the chunks could be shit. The man yanks the chain again and Mike chokes, coughs dryly. “Eat!” He spits, angrily.

Mike reluctantly lowers his face close to the cat food, his stomach turning. He has so far been fed stale bread, washed down with cloudy water, so this is his most substantial meal yet. He should be grateful. So as he takes some in his mouth, the gravy smearing over his nose and cheeks, he thinks – things could be worse.

He could be dead and under ground.

***

Wherever he is, the man with the sack mask turns the temperature down so much that Mike’s joints ache when he wakes up having been curled in the foetal position all night long. It’s the same freezing water that wakes him up, too. And he can’t breathe.

“Morning, baby.” The man says, putting down the bucket and straightening his mask. “Today we’re going to make a little home movie.”

Mike turns to watch him walk to one dark corner of the room, returning with a video camera in his hand. As he approaches the cage Mike cowers a little, covering himself up the best he can. The freezing water is still dripping from his hair, his chin, and landing in a little puddle on the floor of the cage. He shivers and watches as the chain is thrown through the bars.

“Clip that on.”

As usual Mike does as he is told. Because he doesn’t have any other option. Because there’s no point in doing anything else. He clips the link to the ‘D’ ring of his collar and waits for the man to open the cage. He crawls out silently then waits for further instruction.

The man ties the end of the chain to a metal pipe and disappears, a door somewhere slamming. Mike takes the opportunity to try and get comfortable, wincing when his balls touch the cold, stone floor. By the time he has found a way to crouch comfortably the man is back, and in one hand he has a video camera.

“Say hello, Michael.”

Mike swallows hard, mumbles, “Hello.”

“Louder! The people at the back can’t hear you, baby.”

“Hello.” Mike says again, louder this time.

“Tell the folks at home how you’re doing.” The man says. He holds up a notebook with the misspelled words ‘tell them your fine’ in bold black letters.

“I’m fine.” Mike says.

The man turns the page awkwardly, still pointing the camera at Mike, and waits patiently.

Mike reads the page, recites the words, “I am very happy here. I love being treated like the animal I really am.”

“Tell them how much you miss them,” the man says, and flips the page over again.

“I do not miss home at all,” Mike tells the camera, his voice monotone. “I do not miss being in the limelight or being the idol for hundreds of fans. Those people deserve to look up to someone stronger, someone who isn’t a faker.”

“How are you a faker, Mike?”

“I am a faker because I have not been honest. I am gay. I am a sinner. And I deserve to be punished. My band mates deserve to be punished.”

“Tell them who your lover is, Mike.”

“My…my lover is Brad Delson.” Mike says, looking away from the camera briefly to blink away tears. He looks back up to read the page, burning with shame. “He is a sinner too, and he deserves to be punished.”

“Tell them how you got here.”

Thickly, Mike recites, “I was walking home four weeks ago when I was saved. Saved from the life I was taking for granted and wasting. I will not be coming home. I am happy here.”

“Tell them you’re sorry.” The man says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell Brad that you never loved him.”

“I never loved you.”

The man lowers the camera and presses a button, switching it off. “Good boy,” he says, not looking up at Mike straight away.

“Why am I never going home?” Mike asks, wiping his eyes only to have them fill with tears immediately.

The man looks up eventually, the eerie, eyeless sack mask studying Mike carefully. “You don’t deserve a single thing you have back there. And you don’t need it. You’ll be happier here, I promise.”

***

The cat food leaves him hungry but he feels too sick to eat. The only water he is given to drink tastes dirty, like rain, and turns his stomach. But beggars can’t be choosers, and he certainly isn’t going to ask for anything better. Anyway, this is all he deserves. He should never have let this happen. He should have fought the guy more, he should have been able to get away.

He had been on his way home from the studio when he stepped out into the road when a car came. The bumper hit his leg and his knees gave way, the pain sharp and sudden. Whoever it was, they didn’t kill their engine or get out of the car, and when Mike stood up to apologise and make sure his spine wasn’t broken the car revved.

“Woah!” Mike yelled, jumping backwards and landing on his bruised leg with a wince. “Fuck you, asshole, it was an accident.”

The car revved again, jerking forward again and this time Mike wasn’t quick enough. He fell back in shock and hit his head hard. The last thing he remembers was the engine being switched off, the car door opening and then there was a face hovering above his, hidden behind an ugly sack mask.

He thought it had been an accident.

He thought, no human being is this cruel.

He lays on his side in the corner of the cage, staring out into the darkness. The cold concrete below his naked body makes his joints ache. Maybe it’s frost bite. It hardly matters anymore. He hasn’t straightened out since he got here, constantly being curled up or made to crawl on his hands and knees.

He used to miss home, but now he doesn’t want to go back there. How could he put into words how he feels when he can’t even explain it to himself? How could he ever go back to normal after this?

So when the door in the distance opens and the man in the sack mask walks toward him, whistling some tune he maybe heard on the radio this morning, Mike can hardly bring himself to be scared. When the cage door opens and the man tugs hard on the chain, Mike doesn’t move.

The man has to drag him out of the cage, his skin grazing along the floor. Something glints in the light. Mike thinks it might be a knife, or a gun.

“This won’t hurt a bit.” The man says.

Mike doesn’t even ask what, and doesn’t move when he feels a syringe pierce the skin of his neck. The man in the sack mask pushes down the plunger and something ice cold flows into Mike’s veins.

It doesn’t take long. Somewhere a dog barks incessantly, and outside a car door slams. Then everything slows down.

And then it stops.


End file.
